


come to pierce me at my hunger mark (the infinitesimal light remix)

by backtograce (ephemerall)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:32:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemerall/pseuds/backtograce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks sideways at his brother, takes in all these changes that are happening, morphing baby fat into lean muscles and miles of tanned skin.  Even the innocent image of Sam on the cot, lying on his stomach with one hand under his pillow and the other dangling off the edge of the cot makes heat pulse in Dean’s groin; no one would know if he slipped into that room at night and ran his fingers down the long line of Sammy’s spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come to pierce me at my hunger mark (the infinitesimal light remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).
  * Inspired by [come to pierce me at my hunger mark](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7864) by maerhys. 



He’s not sure what he means to say but “You’re getting it when we get to Bobby’s” is what comes out.  The threat isn’t much good anymore; Sam’s too big to push into the closet and hold the door closed with his body weight and too big to threaten with an ass-beating. Dean’s still stronger, can still take him down, but it’s the wrestling to the ground and Sam’s body under his that he can’t handle.  He tries not to think about his own loaded words, tries to keep forbidden images at bay, but Sam smirks and asks what he’s getting; Dean can feel the sudden rush of blood to his dick, can feel it thicken up in his jeans and hopes that Sam won’t feel it against his ankles.

 

At the back of his throat he swallows the question _what do you want to get_ , swallows all the implications that Sam even asked, swallows down the images of what he could be giving Sam at Bobby’s.  “The cot in the library where you can sleep with your precious books and all the dust,” Dean responds.  He looks sideways at his brother, takes in all these changes that are happening, morphing baby fat into lean muscles and miles of tanned skin.  Even the innocent image of Sam on the cot, lying on his stomach with one hand under his pillow and the other dangling off the edge of the cot makes heat pulse in Dean’s groin; no one would know if he slipped into that room at night and ran his fingers down the long line of Sammy’s spine.

Dean is only half paying attention when Sam says something about sleeping in the attic in the July heat without a working window; he pinches Sam’s toe in retaliation.  He tries not to think about the warmth of Sam’s skin, or curling his hand around Sam’s ankle and letting his fingers slide up under the cuff of Sam’s jeans to explore.  A little more bickering, a scolding from Dad, and Sam’s eyes are drooping shut and Dean’s fingers are wandering his skin, soft hair at his calf crinkling under the pads of his fingers.

 

 

It’s after midnight when they pull into Bobby’s.  Sam takes the first opportunity he gets to put his back to the car and get into the house; Dean helps bring in a few bags and watches as Sam comes out to the shed to get the cot and carries it back into the house.  He wants to go with Sam, sit and listen to him talk about school like he hasn’t in too long; he wants to remember what it was like, last year, when Sam gave him a smile that wasn’t forced.  He doesn’t; instead he says goodnight to Dad and Bobby and heads for the attic.

 

He drags a single box fan into the attic and sets it up in a corner to blow directly at the mattress.  He pulls his tee shirt off and leaves his jeans in a pile, and down to just his boxers he climbs onto the mattress and lies down with his arms folded up behind his head.  This time last year he’d had Sam to himself by the river, muddy banks wet and cool between their toes.  They were careless and carefree for just a few days there, and Dean got a glimpse of real happiness in Sam’s smile.  Sam’s grin was so open and free, only for Dean, and it made him want to kiss Sam breathless, and suck the water droplets from his skin.

 

It’s all so vivid in his head, a movie projector screen behind his eyelids in perfect Technicolor detail; it’s so real it could be a memory – Dean wishes it were – and he’s got his boxers shoved down to his thighs and a hand around his cock.  In that place he’s kissing Sam’s perfect mouth, pushing him down on the dry, brown grass near the riverbank and sucking marks into Sam’s wet skin.  Instead of swimming and sparring, Dean sees them rutting against each other, Sam’s tongue wet and sweet against his own, his perfect dick thick and hard in his shorts pressed so tight to Dean’s, and friction so good and sweet it’s blinding.  When Dean comes it’s with Sam’s name dripping off of his tongue and a desperate pull in his chest for something too dangerous to want.

 

It isn’t morning yet, but it’s pretty close when Dean wakes up.  It couldn’t have been more than a few hours, but his first thought is to check on Sam, make sure he got some sleep.  First he wipes a hand over his face, tries to knuckle the brief sleep from his eyes, and reaches down to scratch his belly.  He grimaces, come dried to his skin, itchy and flaking off as he scratches; he grabs his shirt from the floor and pulls it over his head.

 

The hallway is dark and there aren’t any sounds coming from the rest of the house; Dad probably drank some of Bobby’s whiskey and passed out on the couch, and Bobby probably knocked out shortly after Dad.  Their routine is pretty much the same each time, unless there is something big to hunt down. He stops outside the door to the library – Sam’s voice is sleep-quiet, but Dean would know the sound of his name coming from Sam’s lips anywhere.  Dean leans closer to the door, strains to hear through the old, thin wood; Sam’s breath is loud and quick, and Dean rests his forehead against the door when he hears Sam’s soft moan, the sound of friction from skin on skin.  Dean’s throat closes up with want, his chest aches, and his dick swells knowing that Sam is in there, hand on his cock with Dean’s name on his mouth.  For a crazy second, a heartbeat, Dean thinks if he walked in, slid onto the cot next to Sam and let his hand wander to where Sam’s was wrapped around his cock, that Sam would let him, and this wouldn’t be just a fantasy anymore.  His hand is turning the old brass doorknob before his brain can catch up to protest.

 

“Sammy?” His voice comes out rough, something he can blame on sleep, and he doesn’t know what he was expecting – maybe he thought Sam would shamelessly keep going, ask Dean to help him finish – but he gets the same reaction any big brother would get after walking in on his kid brother touching himself.  Sam scrambles to grab the sheet from the floor, eyes avoiding going anywhere in Dean’s direction, trying to cover himself.  Dean tries not to think about what would happen if he said _it’s okay, Sammy, let me_.  Instead, Sam stumbles over an embarrassed explanation of trying to get comfortable.

 

Dean teases like a big brother should, tells himself he isn’t thinking about running his fingers through Sam’s messy hair, or over his skin.  “Lock the door next time, and try to keep it down, if you can.” Sam just quietly tells him he’s sorry about the noise, and that he’ll try to keep it down.

 

“A’right,” Dean says, and closes the door.  He wonders if Sam will throw the sheet back down, finish what he started, wonders if Sam will say his name again – soft and needy.

 

Dean presses his palm against the old wood, rest his forehead against it.  He swallows hard, reflexively around the thickness in his throat; he wants to go back in and wrap Sam up, kiss his mouth and map his skin, and instead he forces himself to walk away.


End file.
